Perhaps Caring is an Advantage
by G.E. Watson
Summary: Nine stories on how gradually, Sherlock fell for someone. Johnlock. Angsty. Really angsty. I warned you. T for profanity and slight violence.
1. A Study in Flatmates

**This is my very first story, and so if you please, be gentle if you decide to flame.**

 **Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock isn't mine.**

When Captain John H Watson, MD, bumbled into Sherlock's life by the hands of Mike Stamford, Sherlock was in no way intrigued. He only needed a "decent, normal, good-hearted flatmate" (Mycroft's words) to procure a flat at Mrs Hudson's and convince Mycroft to unfreeze his funds. The sly bastard had cut him off completely and, as it was his only source of income (consulting detectives are paid nothing, unfortunately) Sherlock was completely at Mycroft's mercy. And that "mercy" was this: acquire a flatmate.

At first glance, John was utterly, utterly boring. Military, _obvious_ , problems with the family, _clearly_ , suffering from PTSD, _dull_ , and it didn't affect him the way his therapist said it did, _of course_ , because therapists were never right, and if they were it was on sheer accident. The most interest John held was in the experiment Sherlock wanted to perform involving tea, toes, and woolen clothes (although John had gone into a mad strop after that and Sherlock never did experiments on John's physical body again.)

But, Sherlock needed a flatmate, and John would have to do - no matter the shocked look on his face after Sherlock's offer. The detective knew he would come. John had nothing better to do.

Mrs Hudson loved John instantly, which was more than likely due to the fact that she believed the two of them to be in a relationship of a not very platonic nature - the woman had been trying to "hook up" Sherlock for years, even going so far as to kidnap him for a blind date with a colleague of her sister's, James. It was very clear that James only had eyes for the slender bespectacled young man with a concentrated look about him, typing furiously into his computer by the counter, and so Sherlock had smirked and left. John's sputtered denials, though, at Mrs Hudson's antics were quite amusing to Sherlock, and so he let it be. Might as well have something to look at until Lestrade's dignity was kicked enough to seek out Sherlock's help.

Thankfully, Lestrade barged in mere moments later, his pride coming to terms that he needed Sherlock, and at last there was a case. Sherlock was about to whirl out the door when his brain screamed _military doctor_ and that was how John was roped into getting in a cab on the way to a crime scene.

It was when John was _awed_ by Sherlock's rapid deductions, _amazed_ by the way Sherlock cut up his life into a million tiny pieces and laid them bare for all to see, that Sherlock became intrigued. John didn't look at him in disgust, didn't run out of the cab, didn't call him _freak_.

Sherlock knew in that moment one thing: John Watson was an oddity.

He didn't have much time to focus on this oddity - the case demanded every ounce of his attention - but it was stunningly clear that there was no lie, no falsehood, nor even a tremble in John's voice when he said "brilliant" and "amazing". And when Sherlock revealed the pink suitcase, of all the emotions that ran through John Watson's eyes there was no fear that Sherlock was indeed the murderer. _It didn't cross his mind for one second._

It was. Well. A bit good, actually.

Angelo's was quick, Sherlock really needed to stop this serial killer, but John's attempts at small talk threw him off-guard. He stated very firmly that he was happily married to his work, and John predictably protested that those weren't his intentions, but Sherlock hadn't been born yesterday and besides, he had just seen the cab. No time to argue. He was out the door in a flash.

Naturally, John followed.

Naturally, he left the cane.

Once they had given up the chase for good and trudged wearily up the stairs to 221B, the stalwart way John defended him from NSY shocked Sherlock to the core. While the detective could attribute some of John's loyalty to his morals - he had just cured his cane, after all - John previously rejected quick, easy money in favour of Sherlock and, come on, John was literally disagreeing _with the police_.

The look of utter disappointment on John's face when he learned the truth about Sherlock's relationship with drugs was enough to make him swear off his seven percent solution forever.

In the midst of the drugs bust the epiphany came - _Rachel!_ \- and Sherlock practically darted out of the flat towards the psychopath behind four murders. Never mind that he might die - Death was bound to be more interesting than boredom.

Two pills, one gunshot and a name later, Sherlock realised John's defence of him didn't just extend to spurning the British Government or arguing with NSY's resident idiots.

It also covered killing a man.

Much of his Mind Palace disregarded the information - John had been in the army and presumably killed before, and killing a killer was "good" in the eyes of society - but a very, very miniscule part took quiet note of the event.

Although it really shouldn't have.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

Something that Sherlock knew very well.


	2. The Blind Colleague

**Again, don't own Sherlock. All rights go to Moftiss.**

He never hated Sebastian Wilkes more than when he openly mocked Sherlock in front of John. But John, righteous, moral John, didn't look once at Sherlock with revulsion in his eyes, but did the opposite - looked at Wilkes with revulsion in his eyes. In fact, he never put Sherlock down at all. The only remotely hurtful thing he did was correct Sherlock. Apparently the two of them weren't "friends" but rather "colleagues." Sherlock knew it was probably for his own benefit - the detective didn't make it a habit to have social relationships - but then why did the words sting a little?

He quickly cast it off as nonsense.

Sarah wasn't too bad, she really wasn't (and he could admit to that) but she was taking up far too much of John's time. Oh well. Sherlock had operated alone before, and he could certainly do so again.

Except that operating alone led him to being nearly choked to death in Soo Lin's flat by a Chinese Mafia member while John spouted creative insults from behind a door a few feet away. If Sherlock were in an appreciative mood, he would have definitely liked the irony in that.

John surprised him with his brilliance, having the foresight to take a picture, and then it clicks - the symbols stand for much more than silly code. He needed to get to Soo Lin, and fast - but a heart-pounding encounter in the museum, followed by the crack of a gunshot and the despair on John's face echoed the death of the young woman.

But he needed more data. Data, data, data, never mind the fact that he was slowly learning the John was much more useful than originally thought.

Intriguing, but onto the Mafia.

He did go to John's date with Sarah, and he didn't regret it afterward - despite John's initial indignation and Sarah's downright confusion. The circus itself wasn't too bad, but he needed more data, so he left.

Only to return mere hours later to find that the oh-so-lovely Chinese Mafia had stolen his colleague and were about to kill said colleague's girlfriend. Wonderful.

There was a brief struggle for power, but eventually John and Sherlock got the upper hand. Of course they got the upper hand. If they hadn't, they would both be quite dead by now.

Sarah looked like a frightened mouse by the time she was released from her bindings, and it didn't take a consulting detective to figure out that there would be no second date despite John's valiant efforts.

John typed up the case that night, ignoring Sherlock's scoffing, and a wave of calm came over the flat in anticipation of a name.

And if they grew a little closer from seeing Soo Lin die and facing Death, who would dare to criticise?

Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…

His brother didn't know what he was talking about.


	3. The Great Partner

**Don't own, don't sue.**

Five pips. Pink cell phone. _Moriarty._

First pip. Pair of shoes. Woman crying into the phone with explosives strapped to her chest. Twelve hours.

Eczema medication. Of course.

Second pip. Bloody car. Man whispering in public - oh dear. 8 hours.

Hoaxed death. Obvious.

Third pip. Tetanus-induced death of television personality Connie Price. Older woman in the vicinity of flats. 4 hours.

Miffed housekeeper. Clearly.

But then the woman started speaking and in a loud _boom_ Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were staring at one another in horror and Sherlock realised the lengths Moriarty would go to -

Fourth pip interrupted his thoughts. River Thames body. No hostage call - odd. Ah, assassination to protect the museum's secret - painting was a fake. The phone rang and a boy started counting to 10.

Supernova. Dull.

Fifth pip.

Not so dull anymore.

John stepped out into the light and for a moment Sherlock panicked. _John_ was Moriarty? their entire partnership had been staged from the start. John was only pretending. His awe wasn't real.

It was almost a relief when he saw the semtex, but it was quickly overshadowed by rage. How _dare_ Moriarty take John, how dare he!

He told the part in his head chanting _no no no we cannot allow John Watson to die_ to shut it.

Finally the real mastermind entered and Sherlock was momentarily taken aback by the fact that he was Jim from IT. Interesting. He told Sherlock to stop interfering - " _Daddy's had enough now"_ \- and Sherlock refused, choosing to engage in the game with the twisted spider as he tried not panicking and his brain worked overtime. Suddenly John did the unspeakable - he jumped Moriarty to save Sherlock.

However, it didn't work - Sherlock could almost feel the traitorous, blinking red dots - but thankfully Moriarty decided he would kill them another day and Sherlock's knees hit the floor faster than light in order to rip the explosives off of John. He threw them far away. _Safe, we're safe._

And John had the gall to joke.

Sherlock knew that there would never be a day when he wasn't surprised by John Watson as he scrambled to tear off those damned bombs.

But then Moriarty was walking back in with their lives in his hands and Sherlock offered an ultimatum: none die or they all die.

A phone call from someone made his answer and that was the day that Sherlock began to refer to John in his Mind Palace as his partner.

He ignored the small-yet-growing, rogue section that had been collecting "John" data from the start and also screamed out another, much more startling term.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

Inwardly Sherlock tossed Mind Palace Mycroft into a broom closet with no cake in sight.

 **Reviews would be absolutely amazing.**


	4. A Scandal in Relationships

**Disclaim, disclaim, you know the drill.**

Irene Adler, now _she_ was a puzzle. She was obviously attracted to Sherlock at first sight and had a particular penchant for making John uncomfortable through a series of not-so-heterosexual connotations. He was quick to deduce where Adler kept her mobile phone, but Adler proved to be quicker and stole the phone before he could flee, not to mention that she _drugged him._ The nerve!

The weeks leading up to Christmas brought several attempts of flirting by the hands of Adler. John didn't like it (especially the text alert tone) if his counting of 57 texts _by ear_ was of any indication. It appeared he was a little shell-shocked at the idea of Sherlock carrying a love interest, if his mutterings to Mrs Hudson were of any indication, and Mrs Hudson (befuddled as well by Irene's feminine-ness) and Sherlock, amused by this befuddlement, did nothing to correct John.

But on Christmas Day, he received Adler's second to last text, the mobile, and the news of her death.

Pity.

Mycroft naturally believed it would be a danger night (shame he didn't know the full extents of Sherlock's practically glaring homosexuality), and so John, newly dumped by dull Jeanette, and Mrs Hudson spent the rest of the holiday looking for hidden drug stashes.

For a few days Sherlock went into what John might call mourning. He was, in a way. He was mourning the loss of a brilliant mind, coming to terms with the way he had been tricked, and understanding some of the facts. His Mind Palace was having some technical difficulties - Adler's arrival had opened up a new door that sent his John Wing wild.

Battersea was incredibly telling. Irene Adler wasn't dead, of course she wasn't, but she carried with her two very powerful notions: one, she had successfully brought England to its knees; two, John was undoubtedly in love with Sherlock.

He dismissed the second - John was strictly straight, _obvious_ \- and zeroed in on the first. He knew her plans and could use it to his advantage, and so he returned to Baker Street to mull over things to find Mrs Hudson held at gunpoint by the oh-so-meddling, oh-so-damn-infuriating, go-rot-in-bloody-hell Americans.

Sherlock only saw red after that. Good thing he had ties to NSY.

Adler finally publicly revealed herself and Sherlock watched as she detailed her winning and his defeat, as she made her extravagant list of demands to Mycroft, calling the detective "the Virgin" mockingly as she went.

Perhaps he was, but that did not make him an idiot.

He realised Adler's downfall and snatched up the phone, typing in the code and watching the devastation gather in her eyes. She had seen the light at the end of the tunnel, only to look down and see her demons greedily holding her in place.

Sherlock did honour the game they played, though. It was challenging, and her death would be a shame.

But he would never admit it, even to himself, that her appearance made him just a bit more open to the idea of sentiment, of someone to hold close at night, of at the very least a _friend_ -

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

And Mind Palace Mycroft was back in the closet.

 **Comments are highly appreciated!**


	5. The Hound of Friendship

**Don't own Sherlock.**

Henry Knight was ridiculously easy to deduce, and soon John and Sherlock found themselves driving to the countryside on the trail a rather odd case of the hounds,

But Sherlock did most certainly not expect to go down into the so-called "Devil's Hollow" and actually _see_ , with his own very much functional eyes, the meddlesome hound. He knew it wasn't real, knew there was no plausible explanation for its existence, but he still _saw_ it, and his mind - the tool he relied day and night upon - could offer no logical reasoning for it.

John, good, strong John, attempted to comfort his strangled and frightened thoughts, but fear made Sherlock lash out with a bite worse than that of any hound. "I don't have _friends_ , John," he spat out without thinking, too wrapped up in his mind to take note of the way that his flatmate's face scrunched up in clear pain and how he practically stormed out of the pub.

The next morning he realised his mistake, and oh what a mistake it was. John was his friend, of course he was, that was obvious to anyone. Sherlock simply didn't have "friends", plural.

Naturally John forgave him - he didn't really have a choice, considering the way that Sherlock employed his pathetic puppy eyes (something that wasn't all faked, mind you; John was precious) and how Sherlock's insufferable brother sent his handler after him. At least Sherlock was able to get back into Baskerville - legally this time around - and test what the sugar would do to John.

Which, in retrospect, was likely not one of his finer moments, but it was _necessary_!

John reacted the way he was supposed to, but it wasn't the sugar. H.O.U.N.D., of course, that abandoned CIA project involving not only hallucinatory chemical weapons but oh-so-coincidentally - _coincidences don't exist_ \- Dr Sutherland. The doctor had taken it up again in the labs of Baskerville, hiding his pet project from everyone until one man - Henry's father - got too close for comfort, and so Sutherland had decided to eliminate him. Henry's visions of a hound were the results of a reaction to protect the child's mind from the horror he witnessed - his father being murdered by a man he considered a friend. Henry Knight was the victim of it all, and so back down to the hollow they went to face off with Sutherland. All fell to the drug and saw the ferocious hound, but a few comforting shots from John's gun silenced it forever.

Sutherland ran (predictable) and was blown to bits (admittedly not so predictable.)

Afterwards John confronted Sherlock about the sugar. Yes, Sherlock did perform a bit-not-good experiment on him. Yes, he could admit that he was wrong about the cause of the hallucinations. Yes, he was terribly sorry about it and would never do so again - an oath made to make the irritation John carried go away. If there was one thing Sherlock knew very well, it was this: an irritated John was most certainly not a good John.

Besides, as if Sherlock could ever bring himself to cause bodily harm to John again.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

He wasn't going to dignify that with a reply.

 **Next up is the Reichenbach Fall... you ready? Comments greatly appreciated.**


	6. The Romantic Fall

**Here it is, the dreaded Fall. Once again, I own nothing. Sue me, I dare you.**

When the two of them returned from Dartmoor Mycroft had finally captured the elusive Moriarty. About time, too. Sherlock had already wrapped up his testimony in preparation for it.

But Moriarty had _no defence_.

That should have tipped Sherlock off from the start.

It didn't.

His reputation in tatters and NSY on the lookout for him, Sherlock ran handcuffed to John through the streets of London in search of a refuge. _He chinned the chief superintendent for you!_ His John Wing cried glowingly, nearly dancing up and down with merriment. John's loyalty despite all the press said was a miracle, and something in Sherlock's chest fluttered at the thought. But the majority of his Mind Palace was focused on one thing: how to outsmart Moriarty.

Frustratedly he tossed the red ball down in the morgue of Bart's, Molly looking down at him with concern. The only thing on his mind was the Lazarus plan. _What if it doesn't work? What if something goes wrong? What if John -_

Molly's voice cut through his thoughts. "You look sad when you think he can't see you."

Of course he looked sad. He was about to separated from John for god-knows-how-long. And when did Molly get so intuitive?

Seeing John stalk out the door when Mrs Hudson was supposedly dying, hearing John call him a _machine_ , felt like a bad dream. So did standing up on the rooftop with Moriarty.

With horror he watched the "safety" to those damned three guns eliminate himself, and he stared down at his only friend as he begged Sherlock not to do this. Stared down at his flatmate, partner, _everything_ as he repeated those hated words - even then John didn't think he was a fake - and heard him scream Sherlock's name in pure terror as he jumped off the roof of St Barts.

If that wasn't hell, the next two years were.

He barely managed not to go insane by hanging desperately onto his John Wing, which slowly evolved into a Palace of its own. He had been so very wrong that day in Dartmoor - John wasn't simply a conductor of light. John bloody well _was_ the light. John was pure and honest and absolutely golden and in those dark, devastating days of starvation and torture and chaos and near-death and unspeakable things, Sherlock fell irrevocably for that glorious light, for the sliver of hope in his newly-found heart.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

Mycroft had never cared before. How would he know?

 **Comments? Anything? Reviews get you quicker updates!**


	7. The Empty Heart

**I own nothing, and thanks to all who reviewed! (I just realised I never thanked all you lovely people. Sorry for being a prick.)**

When Sherlock finally made his way back to his John, he was beaten up quite profoundly - _he didn't miss my nose and teeth,_ his mind noted sadly - and found out that "his" John had surprised him once again.

John had moved on.

John had found a quaint, polite woman by the name of Mary, whom he was very much in love with, thank you. Furthermore, John had every intention of marrying this woman. Sherlock's heart felt like it was being squeezed inside his ribs, and his John Palace cried out _no!,_ even when he knew Mary offered stability and safety - things Sherlock never could.

So much for their happy reunion.

Molly didn't work out so good as a John-substitute (of course not, she wasn't John) and they agreed upon that rather quickly. Sherlock didn't have much time to dwell on this before Mary sent him a hurried text that John had been kidnapped.

Sherlock operated on pure instinct after reading it, dragging John out of the bonfire and to safety. He had never felt more joy than when those beautiful blue eyes opened. _Thank you, whatever deity that cares enough to listen._

John finally decided to let go of all the rage he carried towards Sherlock and, relieved, Sherlock introduced them to their newest case. If he couldn't have John the way Mary did, he was damn well going to make sure they at least went on cases together. When they went down to check out the train that was encased in explosives intended to bomb Westminster Hall, Sherlock couldn't help but need to make sure that all John felt for him was platonic, so he made him believe they were going to die.

While John panicked and told Sherlock he forgave him and spewed out all sorts of horribly sentimental things, it wasn't quite the confession that Sherlock was hoping for.

So he laughed, laughed to disguise the pain of unrequited love. Laughed to drown his hurt.

John didn't love him, _never had and never would_ , and the train proved it.

They stopped the bomb, apprehended secret terrorist Moran, saved London once again. But Sherlock could only notice the John-sized hole where his heart was, and the fact that it wasn't just his John Palace that was screaming in suffering - this time his entire body, his entire Mind Palace, _everything_ was in complete agony.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

Sherlock couldn't find it in him to disagree.

 **Enjoyed it? Hated it? TELL ME PLEASE!**


	8. The Sign of Torment

**Second to last one! Thanks SO MUCH for all reviews. Breaking your heart is my favourite thing to do. I own nothing, all is BBC.**

Sherlock was suitably surprised when John asked him to be his best man. He had never considered it - in fact, he had been planning to put a few more bullets in the wall the day that John was off getting happily married to someone that wasn't Sherlock.

But no.

Apparently he was John Watson's best friend - _doesn't society recommend you marry your best friend, John?_ \- and so he was expected to fulfill the duties of a "best man", which was comprised of three separate parts: the stag night, the wedding preparations, and the best man speech.

The stag night wasn't too difficult to plan out, and soon he and John were stumbling around various pubs in London getting absolutely wasted. Sherlock had briefly entertained the thought of putting a gay club on their list of bars but decided quickly against it, knowing internally that that would be too much for his battered heart. The pair of them somehow found their way back to Baker Street and drunkenly thought it would be a marvellous idea to play charades.

Out of nowhere, John's warmth - _heat heat heat John hand close oh dear God John_ \- was on Sherlock's knee, teasingly close to his thigh, and in his alcohol-induced daze Sherlock merely looked at him, confused. John stared glassily at his hand and then shrugged. "I don't mind."

Who knows what Sherlock would have done then, but he was saved by Tessa from doing anything terribly stupid.

He would wonder afterwards just what the hell John meant by "I don't mind."

The wedding preparations were easy as long as he could ignore the stabbing pain in his gut every time he had to choose between lavender and lilac. As long as he could do that, he truly was fine. And Mary was a nice woman, one he could respect, and she didn't begrudge him when he couldn't grasp the concept of socially acceptable wedding norms. "Why must you throw the bouquet? One's chances of getting married are not going to be increased by catching a silly gathering of flowers."

Mary smiled at him in the flower shop, her hands stroking the petals of a single blue hydrangea. "It's just tradition, Sherlock. There's really no explanation for it."

It was the best man speech that got to him.

 _Couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think..._

For weeks Sherlock frantically scratched out multiple pages that he would later tear out in frustration. He had no clue what to say. Well. He _did_ , actually, but Sherlock was sure that it wouldn't be very acceptable at John's wedding.

The day, however, was upon Sherlock before he came to terms with what it meant, and soon he was standing next to the only other person in the entire world - in the entire _universe_ \- that he had ever loved as he was married to another. When the priest asked "speak now or forever hold your peace," it took every single ounce of Sherlock's willpower to clench his fist tightly, keep his steady composure, and finally, force his lips not to scream _NO!_

After all, his speech already sounded like a bedamned love letter as it was.

Major James Sholto surprised him, however. The way John reacted around him and Mary's simple response - " _Neither of us were the first"_ \- made his world go upside down. John had repeated many, many, _many_ times that he _was not,_ before the universe and God and court and anything that cared, _not gay._ As in I-do-not-take-it-up-the-arsehole not gay. As in strictly-heterosexual.

Right?

But _bisexuality_. That didn't necessarily equate to _gay_ , which implied that one had a wholly attraction to men and never once glanced at a woman, something John clearly didn't do. Being a _bisexual_ made much more sense, and perhaps John dated women singularly due to society's heteronormative bias, and likely because he didn't want to place attention on himself. _Smart John_.

In the army, though, in the wind-scorched desert of Afghanistan, women were scarcer than an oasis. It was entirely plausible for soldiers to seek relief from one another. And if John was bisexual, he had probably made an arrangement with Sholto. Perfectly normal, in fact.

Another thought jarred Sherlock to the core. _So if John was bisexual, he didn't pursue me because of a sexuality crisis - he didn't pursue me because he genuinely only considered me a friend._

That particular knowledge made his best man speech all the harder. Immersing himself into those glorious days when it was just him and John against the rest of the world and swearing to protect him and Mary for the rest of his life had his already aching heart absolutely throbbing in the sense that this day should not be happening.

Sherlock was immensely glad when the underlying case finally came to light, providing him with a sufficient distraction from the wedding, and although he did fear for a moment that he inadvertently revealed himself - "You! It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right" probably didn't sound very platonic - he was able to mask it by flirting to some degree with Janine.

However, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when the reception formally began and he silently retreated to his violin, drowning himself into the sound of his beloved Stradivarius in peace. What would it matter if he had originally written this song for him and John?

As if to spite this brief moment of happiness, his brain had one last deduction to make: Mary was pregnant.

With that announcement, he could already read his future. John and Mary would move to a nice flat in the suburbs and have a white picket fence and 2.5 children and possibly a dog, and gradually Sherlock would disappear from their lives, and those years John spent with Sherlock would be a fond memory. No, it wouldn't be John's fault - it could _never_ be John's fault - but eventually it would be just Sherlock in 221B. He would probably kill himself by cocaine overdose within the year, and John and Mary would read about it in the news and shake their heads sadly. The funeral would have four attendees - his parents, Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson.

 _Alone again…_

What had Mrs Hudson said? Oh, yes. "It's like the end of an era."

With those seven words ringing in his ears, Sherlock really had no choice but to leave. If he stayed he was liable to do something more than a bit not good.

And if he was high on his seven percent solution by the time he finally staggered into 221B, who would care?

Exactly.

No one.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

No. No it wasn't.

 **You guys excited for the last chapter? Yep! I've got one more to go!**


	9. His Last Love

**I stayed up all night getting this done. There were a few hiccups, but it's here and I'm exhausted but happy. Enjoy! All rights to BBC Sherlock.**

Sherlock swore to himself ages ago that he would never see the look of disappointment on John's face in relation to his drugs.

He broke it, of course.

John dragged him back to Baker Street and naturally Mycroft was there to comment not only on Sherlock's high-ness but also John's conspicuously missing armchair. Yes, he moved it. _Of course_ he moved it. He couldn't stand the constant reminder that just when he returned to his John, the doctor had already fallen for another.

So it was with a sickening and twisted pleasure that he introduced Janine to John, and his former flatmate's reaction almost made Sherlock believe that John might genuinely feel a twinge of jealousy. There was no way he could be, though - not with Mary and the baby to occupy his thoughts. Wiggins' deductions proved the contrary, showing that John did miss their shared life together to some degree. Sherlock chalked it off to his craving for adrenaline, and built up his mental faculties to propose.

Not to John (what a shame.) To Janine. There was a new dragon on the block - Charles Augustus Magnussen, slimy blackmailer who preferred CAM. Mycroft said not to go after him, but since when did Sherlock ever really care about what his brother said?

It came as a great surprise, however, to be standing in a room in front of Mary, who had a gun pointed with a steady aim at his chest and who did not hesitate to fire.

Sherlock died.

Death - _Moriarty_ \- came and embraced him in its arms but reminded him of what was at stake if he didn't fight.

Reminded him of his vow, his _oath_ , of an ex-army doctor who wore ghastly cable jumpers and scolded him for smoking, of John H bloody Watson.

So Sherlock fought, fought those tight, icy fingers that sunk him back into the depths of his brain, and took a long, deep breath.

Sherlock lived.

 _For John._

Mary made him swear not to tell anyone, especially not John. And Sherlock had no intention of saying anything to John. No, he wasn't going to say a word. Mary was going to say it all herself.

The Watsons had the domestic to outspunk all domestics, and for a time Sherlock revelled in it, revelled in having his beautiful John back at his side - before he remembered _why_ he was at his side, remembered that he had _sworn_ to protect them, and he was damn well not about to break another vow. He arranged for them to meet at his parents' house, a place where he knew they would undoubtedly reconcile.

Why?

Because John was nothing if not a good man, and for Christ's sake, Mary was pregnant.

For the final time John and Sherlock face off with CAM, and when it failed Sherlock was forced to make a decision - his life or John's?

As usual, the choice was an easy one to make.

He shot CAM. Killed him. In front of dozens of witnesses. Sherlock could practically see the look of horror, dismay, and sorrow on Mycroft's face.

 _For John_ , he thought afterwards as he looked Death square in the eye for the third time on the tarmac (guess the third time really is the charm) and realised that it was the last time.

Yes, he was high the entire time.

What did you expect?

As he stared at John Watson, the man who believed, he knew everything between them was over. Done. Finis. Yet he couldn't bring himself to say those three little words, couldn't die knowing they would likely haunt his only friend forever. The only one who unknowingly wormed himself a place into Sherlock's previously nonexistent heart.

So instead, he said, "Sherlock is a girl's name."

At least he got to hear that beautiful laugh once more.

He sat dazedly in the plane, watching as his beloved city grew farther and farther away, unable to help himself from reading "A Study in Pink." It hadn't been more than a few minutes before Mycroft was calling and the plane was turning around due to Moriarty's face flashing nationwide.

Sherlock had never been more grateful to a dead man in his life.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

He knew that, but it obviously hadn't stopped him. 

**AN: Wouldn't it have just killed you if I stopped it there? I almost did, but my muse was kind.**

Sherlock and John solved the case with Moriarty, and not long after Harriet Martha Watson was born.

Or would have been born. Mary died giving birth to her, and Harriet followed her mother into the arms of Death not long after. Ironic how a high-profile assassin would be taken down by childbirth.

Fifty-nine hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-two point six seconds later, John was back at Baker Street.

He mourned, of course he did, and Sherlock could hear the nightmares and Mary's name cried out in the hours before dawn. The violin seemed to soothe John.

It always had.

The two of them continued to work for NSY and regularly took cases, and after a year and a half it was like the Fall and CAM and Mary never happened at all, never existed. John stopped wearing his ring. Sherlock didn't dare comment, afraid it would be a bit not good to mention it, and stayed silent.

He obviously didn't voice his very-much-still-there love for John, instead settling back into their easy domesticity and simply happy that they were partners and flatmates and friends. As long as John was there, Sherlock was content, knowing full well he didn't deserve his presence one bit.

But everyone, even Sherlock Holmes, faces their breaking point, and one night, he simply couldn't bottle up the urge anymore.

John was sitting by the fireplace on his newly-reclaimed laptop, his greying hair highlighted by the glow of the flames. Sherlock was swooping back into his room to get his bow and impulsively pecked John on the forehead.

The second he registered what he had done Sherlock froze on the spot, his violin crashing to the floor as his Mind Palace went into panic mode and the John Palace practically screamed. Sheer terror, love, and anxiety filled his veins with a paralysing effect as he fearfully looked at anything except his best friend - maybe not even his best friend anymore.

"Sherlock, come here." John's voice was painfully neutral. With a pale face and shaking legs Sherlock stood, eyes cast on the floor, in front of John.

"Look at me, please." Sherlock lifted his gaze and mentally prepared himself for the carefully worded speech John was going to give in which he explained that he harboured a form of affection for Sherlock but not _that_ type of affection and perhaps it was best they didn't share a residence and maybe John shouldn't go on cases anymore.

 _This is the actual end of your relationship with John. Well done, Sherlock,_ Mind Palace Mycroft mocked in his usual condescending tone.

 _What have I always told you since the beginning, Sherlock? Caring is not-_

But he was cut off by the loud cheer of the John Palace when John yanked Sherlock down to him and captured his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Fireworks and sensations exploded in Sherlock's brain as John snogged him to a near inch of his life and gently, oh so gently, pulled away, straightening out the wrinkle he had made in Sherlock's blue dressing gown. "You know I love you too, you great git. I think I always have," John said, smiling up at him as Sherlock gaped in shock.

Mind Palace Mycroft threw his hands up in clear protest, staring in abject horror at this new turn of events. _No! Sherlock! Caring is not an advantage!_

 _Perhaps it is,_ Sherlock said as John pulled him down for another kiss.

 **Kudos to whoever spotted the James Bond reference in the first chapter and the PIALR one in the previous chapter. Sorry, couldn't help myself.**

 **Just anything you have to say, kudos and comments and whatnot, would really make me feel even happier atop of actually finishing this. I loved writing this and it was just an amazing experience with all you lovely readers. Thanks!**


End file.
